The Highwayman
by Lily McKenzie -AND- Cody Zik
Summary: A narrative re-telling based on the original poem "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes and the adapted song by Loreena McKennitt.


**The Highwayman **

Wind whipped through the land, and the branches of the trees clacked together. A full moon was tossed upon a dark sky. A thin ribbon of road twisted across the hill, and down that road came the highwayman, riding to the old inn door.

His horse galloped easily over the purple heather. He'd a French hat cocked over his brow, black curls twisting out from the brim. It was pulled low over his face, hiding green eyes that glowed like lights. Lace bunched at his chin. He was warm in his coat of claret velvet and brown doe-skin breeches. His boots rose to the thigh, protecting his legs. The butt of his pistol and hilt of his rapier twinkled under the faint light of the moon and the jewels of the stars.

The highwayman clattered over the cobbles of the dark inn-yard. He tapped his whip against the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He sighed once, then whistled a tune as eerie as the wind that whispered in his ear and looked up at the casement. Standing there, braiding her long black hair with a dark red love-knot, was Bess, the landlord's black-eyed daughter.

He smiled up at her. "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart," he whispered. "I'm after a prize tonight. But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light." Bess smiled at that, thinking of their future together. The highwayman continued, warning, "Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, then look for me by the moonlight. Watch for me by the moonlight. I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way." His bright eyes gazed at her, begging her to understand. He sounded almost desperate. Bess nodded, reassuring him that she would. Of course she would. She loved him.

He stood up in his stirrups, and raised his hand up to hers, his green eyes blazing. She let go of her hair, and her braid fell out, tumbling out of the casement and touching his chest. His face burned with a high color, and their fingers just brushed each other. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him. She fancied she could see the same desire burning in his light-like eyes.

He caught her ink-black hair in his hands and buried his face in it, kissing the soft black waves. He inhaled the sweet smell of the perfume, cherishing it. He didn't want to leave her, but he knew if he ever had a chance with her, he needed money. And this prize would give him that chance.

Slowly, he lifted his face to hers, staring at her for a long moment before flicking the reins of his horse, and galloping away to the west.

Bess watched him go, an ache in her heart. When his silhouette disappeared over the horizon, she turned back to her room, sending up a quick prayer for him as she climbed into bed.

* * *

Bess opened her eyes to find the world still dark. She got out of bed quickly and dressed silently. As the dawn came, she watched for the highwayman to come over the hill. But the dawning came and went, and he did not come.

Trying not to worry, she went about her daily chores and duties, her eyes flicking to the road whenever possible. He did not come at noon. Worry twisted her stomach, and she bit her lip as she once more turned away from the empty road.

Sunset came. Hoof beats. Bess turned quickly to look out the window. The sun was setting, casting a dark golden glow over everything. The moon had yet to rise. The road looked like a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor. Her heart jumped to her throat at the silhouette on the road, but it was not her highwayman. It was King George's men, dressed in their blood red uniforms, marching up to the old inn door.

They said not a word to anyone, not even the landlord. They just drank the ale Bess served them. She didn't like them. She couldn't say why, but . . . something about them was . . . untrustworthy. She kept her eyes averted as she served them, then retreated to her room.

She was staring out her window, waiting, when a shout ripped the night apart. Bess jumped, and stared frightfully at the door as thundering footsteps pounded down the hall to her door. Four soldiers came barreling in, hungry grins on their faces. She shrank into a ball at the casement, suddenly afraid.

Two of them grabbed her, stuffing a gag in her mouth before she had time to scream. They bound her to the foot of her narrow bed, and leered at her. She glared at them, kicking and lashing out whenever they came too near. The other two knelt at the casement, their muskets gleaming at their sides. There was death at every window, hell at her dark window; she could see the road her highwayman would ride, should he come now. And if he did . . . Bess feared he would not live to see the dawn.

They stripped her of her plain dress, outfitting her into a soldier's uniform instead. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and a three-pointed hat placed over her black waves. Bess's cheeks were aflame, and tears streaked down her face, but all she struggled was for not.

The soldiers cut the knots at her wrists, and dragged her down the stairs. Her father protested as he saw the soldiers taking his daughter away, but they pointed guns drunkenly at him, and told him to stay out of it. He argued again, and a shot rang out. Blood spurted from the older man's leg, and he collapsed with a yell of pain. Bess shrieked against her gag, tears falling from her eyes faster now, but the soldiers paid her no attention; they simply carried her out to the dark inn-yard.

They tied her up to attention, sniggering jests amongst themselves. They bound a musket beside her, the barrel beneath her breast. Her cheeks burned as one said, "Now keep good watch for us, Lovely." Each of them kissed her roughly, even though she tried to pull away. She couldn't help be reminded of her highwayman, who must now be surely dead. His voice seemed to murmur in her ear, "Look for me by the moonlight. Watch for me by the moonlight. I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bare the way." Bess saw again his soft, easy smile, full of confidence and love. Her heart jerked, and the soldiers finally turned away, leaving her to her own private agony.

No.

Bess picked her head up slowly, determination blooming in her chest. She had allowed herself a moment of weakness, but that moment was over now. She would not be defeated like this. He wouldn't want that.

Narrowing her black eyes, she twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good. _Damn the soldiers and their knots,_ she thought vaguely. But she refused to give up, and her fingers writhed furiously till they were wet with sweat or blood. They stretched and strained in the darkness, and it seemed to take forever for the knots to loosen even the slightest. "Come on, come on," she gasped under her breath. Her hands ached, but her determination and love for him burned brighter than her pain.

The church's bells rang out across the moor. Twelve deep-throated bongs echoing over the lonely hills. Midnight. Shivering in the cold moonlight, her bonds broke just enough. There! The tip of her finger touched it; the trigger, at least, was hers.

So Bess stood in silent watch, her black eyes flicking across the moon-kissed hill, and her ears straining for the slightest sound. But the night was still and silent; not a sound to be heard, aside from the soldiers' quiet voices.

_Tlot-tlot._

Had they heard it? The horses' hooves rang clear.

_Tlot-tlot,_ in the distance.

Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Bess did not dare move as her eyes stayed glued to hill. Her heart beat erratically, like a raven was trying desperately to escape. Hope and despair warred in her chest, making her heart ache more than ever. For she was sure that down the ribbon of moonlight and over the brow of the hill that her highwayman came riding toward her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bess saw the red-coats look to her, their priming. But she didn't move; she stood straight and still. She knew if she did anything else, it would be the death of him.

_Tlot,_ in the frosty silence.

_Tlot,_ in the echoing night. Nearer he came, and nearer. He could see her face in his mind like a light, guiding him home, to Bess.

Nearer and nearer the hoof beats came, clattering in the cold night. Bess recognized the rhythm of hoof beats now; she knew them as well as she knew the pattern of her own breathing. It was him. And he was riding straight toward his grave.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment, and she drew one last deep breath, gathering her courage. Then her finger twitched in the moonlight.

The shot of her musket shattered the calm moonlight, shattering her breast in the cold night, warning him with her death.

* * *

The shot of a musket tore the night in two, and he knew immediately something was wrong. So he turned and spurred to the west, away from danger. He sent up a quick prayer for Bess and her family as he galloped his faithful horse over the moor.

Bess watched through clouding eyes as her highwayman spun on his horses' rear hooves and galloped back to the west. She knew he did not know she stood there, bowed with her head over her musket, drenched in her own red blood. She closed her eyes, thanking God that he got away safely. Then everything spiraled away to black.

He had hidden in a copse of trees for the night, his horse grazing quietly next to his head. Just before dawn, voices awoke him. He shifted in his bedroll, listening to the tail end of the conversation.

"—Bess, the landlord's daughter—"

"The black-eyed daughter?"

"Yes, the landlord's black-eyed daughter. She was found shot. They say she was tied up, made to stand guard for the night. But something awful happened . . ." The voices trailed away on the breeze, and the highwayman heard no more. But it hardly mattered. Shock had overtaken him, and he felt his face go gray.

Bess . . . dead? How?

Memories ripped through his mind: riding home late last night . . . the shot of the musket, from the young red-coat on duty . . . it couldn't have . . .

It must have been. He had been watching; the musket had never moved. Just gone off. She had done what he asked: watched for her love in the moonlight, but died in the darkness there.

Fury roiled through his veins, and he leaped on top of his horse. He spurred it to the inn, racing along the road like a madman, shrieking a curse to the dawn sky. The road smoked behind him. He drew his rapier and brandished it high, the metal gleaming like an icicle in the cold morning light.

The red-coat guards looked up to see a highwayman galloping toward them, screaming and swinging a rapier. His spurs were blood red in the golden light, and his coat was red velvet; he could have been one of them.

But he was not.

So they shot him down on the highway, like a dog on the highway.

He tumbled off his horse, landing hard. His hand was pressed over his chest as he rolled onto his back, staring at the dawn sky. "Bess . . ." he choked out as he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. Then his breath left him, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

* * *

I walked toward an old inn on a cold winter's night. The wind was high in the trees, and the moon reminded me of a ship tossed on a dark sea. In front of me, the road was a faint ribbon of moonlight, leading me over the purple moor. As I came to the top of the hill, I could see the inn nestled in the valley below. As I started down the slope, I thought I heard hoof beats behind me.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw nothing at first. But as I started to turn back around, a shadow moved, then galloped past me. I stopped and watched, curious as to who this stranger could be.

A horse clattered over the dark inn-yard, and a man went riding up to the old inn-door.

I blinked, and he was gone.

The highwayman.


End file.
